Page 19 of The Pearl (The Godwicks 3)

“Only Lia’s wedding plans. And Lord Malcolm. He used to live there, you know.”

“She asked about Lord Malcolm?”

“If I remember correctly. It was over six months ago. I know we talked about him, and she had quite a collection of photographs of him from the hotel’s archives. Loads of dances. Loads of balls. Parties, I mean, not—”

“Not testicles. I assumed. All right. Just wondering. Did she ask to buy our portrait of Lord Malcolm?”

“I don’t recall. Why do you ask?”

Arthur hated lying, especially to his family, but he had to protect Charlie.

“I ran into her, and she recognized me,” he said. “We had a long talk and she asked if she could buy Lord Malcolm’s portrait. You know, since he was such a fixture at The Pearl.”

“I hope you told her no.”

“I did.”

“She’s welcome to have someone make a copy of it, but never the real thing.”

“Right.”

“We’d sell you to her before we’d sell that painting. Lord Malcolm would never forgive us, and I’d hate to get on his bad side.”

Arthur bit his lip. “Understood.”

“But if she wants to buy you and get you off our books, the price is negotiable. All reasonable offers considered. We’ll toss in Charlie, too. Buy one, get one.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you, too.”

“Here’s your mother.”

“Wait.”

“Yes?”

He almost asked his father if he remembered what it was he’d said about being married, how it changes a man, but decided against it—it would be tipping his hand, and his father was the last person in the world he wanted to discuss his sex life with.

“Nothing,” Arthur said. “Forgot what I was going to say.”

He chatted briefly with his mother about New York, and he promised her most sincerely that he would go to Wingthorn next week to check on the renovations at the old manor house. By the time the conversation was over, Arthur was back at the townhouse and on his way to the shower.

While in the shower, he considered what his father had said, that the one conversation he’d ever had with Regan Ferry was mostly about Lord Malcolm. Was it really because he’d been such a legend at the hotel? That was eighty, ninety years ago. And Regan’s animosity toward Arthur—toward the entire Godwick bloodline—made no sense either. Unless it was simply her fetish to emotionally assault the men she was attracted to. Considering how she’d treated him before and after the sex on Monday night, he could believe it. But the answer wasn’t completely satisfying. Not the way she’d looked afterwards. So wounded. Almost scared.

* * *

In the hotellift that evening, he reminded himself that Regan was using him and that he should under no circumstances allow himself to get emotionally involved here—not more than he already was, at least.

A note was taped to Regan’s door with the letter A on the front. He assumed that was him, that he was the A. Whether that A stood for Arthur or Ass, he didn’t know and wouldn’t ask.

The note read,Unlocked. Wait upstairs.

Short. Succinct. To the point.

He did as ordered.

As soon as he stepped into the empty bedroom, he remembered in his body everything he had done and felt here Monday night. He stood at the foot of the bed and remembered how his wrists were lightly chaffed the morning after and how he’d laid in his bed at the townhouse, lifting his arms into a silver shaft of morning sunlight to stare at the redness on his skin. Seeing it had been a revelation. How right those pale welts looked on his wrists. It was like seeing himself for the first time—not the way he actually looked, but the way he was supposed to look.

He turned away from the bed and noticed a familiar face in the bedroom. Regan had hung Lord Malcolm on the wall opposite the bed.

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